Pretty in Red
by NoOneShallKnow
Summary: This ain't SPN. It's RL. - I live in my head sometimes. It's a pretty strange place. Warnings: non-descriptive abuse, and semi graphic sex. Not sure about the genre, soo.


I live in my head sometimes. It's a pretty strange place. There's giraffes with butterfly wings, foxes with a lion's roar, clouds spun from sugar, mountains made of chocolate with boulders made of skittles, seas of music and plants that dance. It's not always so fun though. Like right now.

In real life I'm sitting on the bleachers in the school yard.

In my head, I'm strapped to a cold stone table, limbs numb from cut off circulation. It's night, a cold breeze making my bones ache in memory. I'm in the basement and it's dark, stuffy enough to make me wheeze, wishing I had my inhaler.

In real life people are sitting around me. They're cheering loudly, arms flailing and really not caring or noticing that they're hitting me.

In my head, the people know that they're hitting me. It's all hard blows and stinging cuts, hard crack of leather on the insides of my already bruised thighs. They're laughing, and I'd be yelling and raging but I can't. There's a needle near my head that I have to strain to see, a cut piece of thread still tied to it; they sewed my mouth shut tight, blood still oozing along with drool because I can't bring myself to swallow.

In real life, my lips are slightly parted, air moving in and out freely. My tongue darts out over the glaring scars.

In my head, I'm being turned onto my belly, straps just barely loose enough to make it possible. My arms and legs are twisted over each other, shoulders aching. Someone is pulling out the leather cord.

In real life, Jared's sitting next to me with my hand held tight in his, looking pointedly at a few students down on the football field.

In my head, Alan Ackles is pounding into me mercilessly while Gerald Padalecki shoves his cock down my throat, grip on my hair tight. They're both grunting like the wild animals they smell like, all the pushing and pulling making my arms and legs cramp in protest. My throat clenches and Gerald moans.

In real life, Jared's purring darkly into my ear, tongue flicking out over my earlobe. My hand is shoved down the front of his jeans, the crowd around us oblivious in its excitement. He's panting against my neck, hips bucking. His nails are digging hard into my inner thigh, high up near my cock.

In my head, Donna Ackles and Sherri Padalecki are giggling happily, their male counterparts groaning and gasping all over me. Blood and pre-come are leaking from both ends. When Alan and Gerald come, both pulling out to smear my skin, I'd be screaming all kinds of insults, but I'm busy choking around a scream of pain. Alan pushes down on my broken arm, four laughs echoing in the room followed by thundering footsteps coming down the basement steps.

In real life, I'm biting my lip.

In my head, Gerald and Donna are un-strapping me in a panic, and as soon as they're done, the door bursts open and Jared storms in, snarling like a rabid wolf. I can see the handle of the knife he's hiding as I roll off the table shakily. Come starts running down my thighs as I move to the other end of the table.

In real life, Jared is gasping and coming all over my hand.

In my head, Jared is smirking and stabbing and I'm slashing, eyes bright. Jared grabs Alan by the hair and cuts open the base of his throat, dropping the knife and plunging his hand in. a few minutes later, Jared's fucking me hard and hot, my body bent over the stone table as I stare down at our dead parents, mewls escaping me and mingling with Jared's sweet groans.

In real life, I lick my hand clean and grin because it's been three years and we're nineteen and we're gonna kill Charlotte and Dresden, and maybe Dave and Lucas. We're gonna add them to the photo album, alongside Donna, Sherri, Alan, Gerald, Sam, Beth, Christopher, Sally, Bill, Zach, Ophelia, Angie, Jim, Allie, Dane, Bert, Andy and Jordan.

Jared lives in my head with me sometimes. Other times, we're driving around in our common Silverado instead of Jared's old '67 Impala that we left with Misha last week for his own fun, looking for new victims. Most times, it's Misha who takes the pictures.

It's perfect when we kill. It's even better when we fuck in the mess.


End file.
